Sometimes I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
Like I could twist and turn, transform and try,
All the years of my life and still not get it right.
I don't know who made it that way.
Couldn't tell you where the notion developed,
Or who proved to be truth before I did.
I don't know which artist created this outline,
Sketched it in ink, and entitled it a lifestyle -
One I once dared not color outside the lines of.

But I figure, if I cannot be a Mona Lisa of a painting,
I could be a more original, less world reknown piece
Because the regard of outside perspectives is less important
Than the quality of art produced in me.
Maybe I've been too focused on the colors already on the palette,
Instead of the mountains of shades I could imagine.
Maybe the skin I wear is black, like mourning, like darkness,
But these shadows make it possible to appreciate light.
Maybe the issue isn't me. Maybe I just need a new canvas,
One that resembles my possibilities and not my limitations.
One that allows room for breath, and exploration, and mistakes -
That isn't stifled with labels, or schemes, or systems.
And maybe I have to create that for myself.

Sometimes, I really do feel like an alien in my own skin,
But that doesn't make it any less mine,
Nor any less worthy of love.
And maybe I can love this martian without having all the answers,
Or even a planet or plane to belong to.
Maybe the person behind the pen, or pencil, or paintbrush, is me,
If I decide to be.

Maybe millions of light years away,
There are a people,
Born of stardust and soul, as we were,
Searching for purpose in the meadows of sky,
Unable to still the discontent in their minds,
Taught that there were naught to believe in,
Beyond that which lives before their eyes;

Maybe they ache for connection,
A hunger deep, and consuming,
As they toil seemingly in vain,
Yearning to find some sign of meaning,
Craving more than the empty ideals given,
Desperate to escape the constraints of religion,
To break free of the rat-race,
To venture off of the fruitlessly narrow trail,
A path that leads nowhere, but around,
A snake eating it's tail,
An infinity, in the darkness of ignorance.

Or maybe they surpassed us aeons ago,
Welcomed the light of cosmos as we have not,
Embraced the self, and all that it is,
And completed the journey of enlightenment,
Awakening, then teaching those who slumbered,  
Until they were all consciously connected,
Surpassing the concepts of 3rd, 5th, & 7th dimensions,
Regaining the abilities long hidden in subconscious,
To create, to heal, to transcend realms, as they once did;
Maybe, a few of those starseeds live amongst us now,
And maybe they came, to show us how.

empty thoughts, filled with empty words
floating around the abyss that is my head
yet they all make sense to me,
why not anyone else

"Can I have this dance?"
I take your hand and follow you to the dance floor.
We begin. Moving gracefully at first,
Every twist and turn comes with ease.
A turn and suddenly, a misstep.
I turn back to you, confused.
We're on the same dance floor, only now I can't hear the music.
But you can.
I try to lock eyes with you, attempting to feel your next moves.
But you aren't looking at me, and your hands feel like air in mine.
I am completely at your mercy.
I plead with my eyes to make you understand that I'm lost.
I ask for clarity, but the words get lost between my lips.
You push and pull me from side to side,
No warning, no clue as to where I'll go next.
In between dips and turns, we go back to a simple pattern.
Flawless, fluid, in sync.
Then the music changes and you adjust
I stumble and feel your arms steady me, then spin me around.
My head pounds from the whiplash.
Now we're clumsy, awkward, disjunct.
I look up to see an empty dance floor.
With you still leading me through a blind dance.
I go along with the back and forth, the fluid and clumsy.
Because what can I do on an endless floor with no music and no direction.